


Twinks, Daddies & Bears. Oh my!

by Villain



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Cherik - Freeform, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Oral Sex, charles is very british, educational crack, sassiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villain/pseuds/Villain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is fresh back from Oxford and new to the gay scene in New York. On his first night out at the clubs with his best friend Hank, he sees the Big Bad Wolf; otherwise known as Erik Lehnsherr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twinks, Daddies & Bears. Oh my!

**Author's Note:**

> Educational smut! While Charles drools his friends educate him on the ins and outs of gay social hierarchy. And then it’s lust at first sight when he sees the local heartthrob.

  _Set in modern-day Queens, New York_

 

            The music was abysmal, but the drinks were strong. Charles tried not to see the bartender waggle his tongue at him in the most obscene manner, and for God’s sake, it was _split_ ; right down the middle like a serpent’s. Merry old England was feeling very far away at this point. He huddled along the wall, feeling overtly new and sweaty. Thankful for the somewhat ridiculous [punny science t-shirt](http://www.neatoshop.com/product/Moebius-Dick) he’d been talked into wearing (instead of his regular oxford button-down) Charles scuttled over to a spot on the floor under one of the ancient looking wall fans.

            It wasn’t that the gay queens in England were any less… _fabulous_ , but apparently when one was _in_ Queens, New York, its namesake amplified the flare. Not that it didn’t make for some unrivaled people watching. He’d already seen a man being led around on a leash, with a butt plug trailing a fluffy trail out his arse. And what was more; no one batted a glittery eyelash.

            Charles had gone through the oppressive yet confusingly erotic ritual of a private boy’s school in London, where the underclassmen were nothing more than slaves to the uppers. He’d washed feet, been someone’s ottoman, and had been thrashed over the arse with a switch far more times than he could count. After that the British gay scene was tame. Plenty of well-dressed gentlemen with a Stephen Frey-esque air, maybe a riding crop tucked away in their closets next to the cock ring. But that was just it; the cock ring and the riding crop remained within the bedroom. You could take the boy out of Britain, but you could never take the innate sense of propriety and borderline prudish nature out of the boy.

            He was sure somewhere in the United Kingdom this alarmingly colorful and glitter-stained tangle of beautiful people on and off drugs was being emulated in some bar or pub Charles had never heard of. He’d just never seen it when he was there. And now he was in the middle of the storm; or how had Raven referred to it? Ah, a hot mess. That’s what it was. A hot mess.

            Hank’s crown of coppery hair was seen bobbing through the web of coifs, faux hawks, afros, and stellar Farah Fawcett waves. Charles tried not to leap for joy when his only friend in all of New York finally made his way over with a bright blue cocktail to match Charles’ drink. He nodded to Charles, falling into an awkward sway that must have been meant to match the heavy techno beats bleeding up the stairs from the dance inferno below.

            “All right?” Charles shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth. He took a long draw from his – what had the bartender called it? – A.M.F. as Hank answered, the usual soft-spoken voice evolving into something much, much higher pitched.

            “Scoped out the dance floor, was propositioned by a very large Ukrainian man,” Hank shrieked, wincing as the base stuttered into the warped static of dubstep. Leaning in, he asked, “Do you want to go to the game room? It’s quieter there, less Chicken Hawks prowling around.”

            Charles made a face. “What?”

            Taking a breath, Hank bellowed, “DO YOU WANT-”

            Slapping his hand ungraciously over Hank’s mouth, Charles laughed, “No, what do you mean by ‘chicken hawk’?”

            Now the taller man looked confused. He motioned to the left and the two of them slid their way across the crowded main floor where the first of five different bars were serving lethal cocktails. This floor was home to the jukeboxes, karaoke stage, and the main door. The bar dominated the middle of the room like some huge alcoholic island paradise, six different scantily clad bartenders in constant motion. Drag Queens luxuriated under the blue lights, glittering and exotic in the twilight magic of the club. The Stonewall types, sporting white hair and Hawaiian shirts, nursed beers and traded stories of the old days. Fresh meat, still wet behind the ears, looked terrified huddled in groups, sipping from weak Dirty Shirleys while older men licked their lips predatorily.

            A flight of narrow stairs led down to the dance floor, a heavy curtain of clear rubber flaps doing an ill job of keeping the pounding music at bay. Past the second bar, down a wide flight of glowing yellow stairs was the dance floor itself. The floor was a colorful chaos of flashing lights in time to the base, light reflecting dazzlingly off the mirror-walls creating an illusion of infinite space. The DJ spun in his tiny tower overlooking the writhing mass of sweaty bodies while glistening muscled go-go boys gyrated in aviators and jock straps.

            Past the hectic tangle on the dance floor was another doorway, this time glowing rainbow tubes with neon liquid acting as a barrier. Outside was a large patio halfway under cover, halfway under the stars. Independent heating towers dotted the cement, wooden benches lining the wood walls covered in street signs from all over the city. A third bar was set up in tiki style along the wall, the bartender’s skin tight muscle-tee printed with the Ace Gear bar logo.

            Off to the left was a short dark alley that stretched along in a tunnel of rainbow reflectors flickering from inside the walls. Above was a river of twinkling rainbow tinsel lights that mimicked the currents of flowing water. Rough brick walls supported couples kissing in the dark, cool against the asses of men eagerly accepting blowjobs or rough against the backs of men getting fucked on its surface. At the end of the line was the fourth bar, glowing red like the entrance to Hell. The bartender had a meticulously groomed goatee and made the strongest drinks in the entire club.

            The fifth bar was in the Game Room, where Hank was currently ordering a pair of Black Opals from Alex, the notorious new bartender that had broken up a bar fright between two massive Doms after one had made a pass at the other’s Sub. Hank was slightly terrified (as well as in awe) of the man, but his drinks were the least deadly. After tipping generously and blushing under the sharp nod of thanks he received as a result, Hank threaded his way back to Charles, careful not to get in the way of pool sticks, knocked over by zealous DDR queens, or get hit with a flailing fist from the victor at the air hockey table. 

            Meanwhile, Charles was pointedly not returning the heated stare of a huge man decked out in plaid. His dark eyes were wild, matching the aggressive curl of his mouth and oddly appealing mop of brunet hair. When Hank sat down next to him and sidled closer with his drink Charles saw out of the corner of his eyes as the plaid-wearing lumberjack of a man snorted and turned back to his pool game. Exhaling in relief – not that the man hadn’t been rather ridiculously attractive in a primitive sort of way – Charles gladly accepted his drink. The A.M.F. still hadn’t hit him, and Charles was wondering if perhaps the busy bartender had duped him. He hadn’t tasted a thing. And really, what did A.M.F. stand for anyway?

            “Adios Motherfucker,” Hank began with no preamble. Charles looked surprised that he’d asked the question out loud, then quite flabbergasted as the words left Hank’s usually more eloquent mouth. “Every region in the US has a different name for it, but all titles generally point to the same thing.” Taking a deep sip, Hank blinked rapidly as the alcohol burned down his throat. “Mind-eraser, Blue Motorcycle… All with the similar result, which is the guaranteed loss of inhibitions without much warning and general, um, fucked upness…” He blinked again, seemingly losing track of his own words.

            “I understand,” Charles assured his friend, realizing belatedly that his speech was slurring. “Maybe it’s sneaking up on me,” he murmured, merrily sipping away through the extra-large straw currently draining his cocktail. Both he and Hank looked down in befuddlement when a loud slurping noise brought to their attention that the Black Opal was gone. Charles giggled, “How did that happen?” Hank, looking very concerned, immediately shuffled off to get another for him, as if empty drinks were something grave. Left on the leather couch in a muffled sort of bliss, Charles thought to himself that perhaps the A.M.F. had more of a kick than he’d realized. He hummed into his empty glass, licking thirstily at the cold slip of ice. Staring cross-eyed, he watched the wet pink of his tongue lap at the ice cubes –which he just now noticed were shaped like tiny penises. How delightful! He may have been giggling when Hank returned, the tall man looking upset.

            “Charles!” Hank slurred, “My hair is reddish, isn’t it reddish?”

            “Your face certainly is, my friend,” Charles observed, making grabby hands at the coppery drink in Hank’s large hands.

            “I think,” he squeaked, relinquishing the cocktail to Charles’ greedy grip, “That I might have just been… _hit on_.” He sat down, looking somewhat like a fish lying on dry land. His mouth clicked shut when Charles nudged it with the rim of his glass. Then his brows furrowed, baffled expression giving way to vague irritation. “Or possibly insulted…”

            “How so?” Charles asked, unable able to hold back a delighted “Oh!” at the sweet cocktail. It was refreshing and sugary, tasting like candy. Charles thrilled at the gayness of the moment as he happily sipped on the candy-flavored cocktail adorned with a little pink umbrella.

            At this point Hank was looking more and more alarmed. “I was going to order another Opal, but Alex said I should try a Slut-” That caught Charles’ full attention. “Then he leaned in and said, ‘A Redheaded Slut.’ _Then_ he said, ‘That’s my favorite kind’.” Wringing his wrists, Hank continued miserably, “It’s not like Alex doesn’t already get showered with attention from Bears to Twinks-”

            Charles made a face, “ _What_?”

            “-and the Potato Queens basically…” He took a deep breath. “Basically _cream_ themselves-

            “ _What_?” Charles interjected helplessly.

            “-when they see him.” He flushed scarlet as he stuttered over the words. “I… I don’t stand a chance,” he finished dramatically, blue eyes wide behind his glasses.

            It was at that exact instant that Charles realized another person was standing next to Hank, looking something akin to constipated. The blonde man with fierce blue eyes was holding a cocktail similar to the one Charles had, and he realized when he saw the washcloth hanging from the man’s back pocket that this was the bartender, and therefore it was-

            “You forgot your other one,” Alex said gruffly, ears burning red. He shoved the drink at Hank and stalked away, an audible “Bozo” leaving his lips.

            The bozo in question looked like he’d not only seen a ghost, but it had emerged from his toilet. He sunk further into the couch, a pathetic whimper the only sound he made as he retreated like a six-foot tall tortoise into a shell of utter humiliation.

            “He’s cute!” Charles chirped encouragingly.

            “If alcohol poisoning wasn’t such an unglamorous and particularly awful way to go…” Hank whimpered.

            “Oh, hush,” he chided the taller man, speaking around the straw still in his mouth. It really was huge, like those straws he saw teens using with those milk tea drinks to suck up the tapioca balls. “Maybe it’ll take your mind off things to tell me about all those bloody code names you were using.”

            Head lolling bonelessly, Hank grunted, “What codes?”

            “Something about the Queen of Potatoes, and maybe bears?”

            He squinted up at Charles. “Not that I’ve ever doubted you before, Professor, but you _are_ gay?”

            “I’d challenge you to find something gayer,” Charles retorted primly.

            Wiggling up the back of the couch until they were eye-level with each other, Hank sipped thoughtfully on the Redheaded Slut. “Much like the animal kingdom’s diverse species,” he began wisely, “There is a natural balance between cohabiting levels of gay.”

            Charles could see Alex watching them from over Hank’s shoulder, brooding and quite attractive. He was mixing drinks with distracted aplomb, barely paying attention to the people ordering them. Being the good friend that he was, despite his honest curiosity as to what intricate customs American guys performed, Charles knew that Hank would distract himself into missing out on a golden opportunity. Clearing his throat and pointedly hefting his empty glass – he should probably start pacing himself lest he risk reintroducing all that quality alcohol to the open air – he motioned to the bar. Hank shrunk down into the couch again, a reenactment of his earlier tortoisedom.

            “Uh, I’ll be fine here-”

            “No such thing,” Charles proclaimed, climbing to his feet and catching himself on Hank’s shoulder as he swayed. Standing: maybe not the best plan. Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on realigning his spatial and vertical awareness before they popped back open to stare a bit too brightly down at his miserable companion. “Hank. _Hank_. Are you a man or are you a mouse?” Pausing, he licked his lips. “Is mouse a category?”

            Hank rolled his eyes, standing with a put-upon sigh, “No.”

            “Anyway,” he dismissed, swinging around to begin marching towards the bar. “I’d like to ask Alex what _he_ is.”

            “N-nng.” Hank’s eyes grew very round, “No!”

            But Charles was long gone, already splayed over the bar like a cat. He could practically see the Englishman’s tail flicking impishly, and in turn Hank’s stomach plummeted. Rushing over, he contorted his body around the various stumbling bodies and grasping hands to get to Charles before too much damage was wrought. Just as he was dodging a wildly gesticulating twink holding a brimming Cosmo, Hank was cut off by the burliness that was Logan. The muscular man slid smoothly onto the barstool directly next to Charles and Hank sputtered indignantly when Logan shot him a smug glance. Quickly he took the seat on Charles’ other side and tried to read Alex’s face as the bartender filled a glass with that night’s tap. Maybe Charles hadn’t single-handedly ruined his (somewhat slim) chance at a sex life.

            “Looking far too sober, doc,” Logan practically purred, pushing into the flushed-face man’s space. Ruby red lips darkened in the shifting lights, wet and glistening as if they were just waiting for teeth to abuse them, or maybe a cock to slip between them and stretch that pretty mouth-

            “On the contrary, my friend,” he announced joyfully, “I am right pissed.”

            Leaning away from the smaller man, Logan’s eyebrow arched, “I didn't touch ya, bub.”

            “Charles means ‘drunk’,” Hank interrupted waspishly, adding under his breath, “Ingrate.” Though it seemed Logan heard it anyway if the way his lip curled and he flexed threateningly was any indication. Hank snapped his mouth shut. He knew Logan through Alex; the man was a regular and Hank should’ve guessed he’d introduce himself to Charles from the way he’d been leering at them earlier.

            Charles blinked owlishly. “Oh,” he breathed, delighted, “You Yanks say something completely ridiculous like… like _smashed_.”

            “Canadian,” Logan corrected, his interest reignited as the pretty Englishman apologized sagely for the mistake.

            “I wonder then,” Charles continued, beaming his thanks when Alex set another Redheaded Slut in front of him, “If Canadians also use the animal kingdom as some kind of self-prescribed classist system.”

            “Tone down the syllables,” Logan laughed, taking a deep draw of his beer before leaning in. He ignored the fussy tall guy over Charles’ shoulder – Frank or Hank or something - instead swimming in very bright blue eyes. “I don’t know about all this ‘animal kingdom’ stuff you’re talking about.” Grinning hungrily, he lifted his hand to gently tip Charles’ face up. “All you need to know is I’m king of the jungle.” Those blue eyes dilated just the tiniest bit and Logan felt himself reacting-

            -until a huge hand clapped down on his back, nearly throwing him into Charles’ lap.

            Azazel swung himself around and stuck out the hand not currently shoving Logan out of the way. He grinned toothily when Charles – he’d overheard the name – took his hand in turn and shook it. His sinewy muscle flexed beneath the leather wrist cuffs he wore that matched his leather chaps – assless because he could still rock it – and vest. The motorcycle cap pulled low over his brow did nothing to hide the sky blue eyes set deep in his craggy tan face. Leaning forward, he kissed the top of Charles’ hand and purred in his thick Russian accent, “Don’t mind this glam bear, Charles. I’m Azazel.”

            “It’s _muscle_ bear, you tired queen,” Logan snapped, the overtly masculine façade casually tossed aside now that his best girlfriend was there. No use strutting when Azazel was in a playful mood. “Don’t scare the kid.”

            “Now why is it muscle bear?” Charles asked, taking his hand gingerly back from Azazel. “I need this explained to me.”

            “Hairy,” came a new voice, belonging to a shaggy-haired redhead who pushed between Hank and Charles to pluck a ready bottle of water Alex had set out. He nodded at his blond friend and leaned against the bar. Sweat glittered on his freckled torso, leading down in lean lines to the tiny pair of Calvin Kleins brimming with five and twenty dollar bills. Setting the water aside, he plucked the money out and laid it on the counter. As he organized the bills he cut the Englishman a wry grin. “Bears are hairy, and big.”

            “Quiet you,” Azazel joked, hooking another twenty into the go go boy’s briefs. “Breeders don’t get to say.”

            Charles sipped at his drink, choking a little when the damning word left Azazel’s lips. “Breeders?”

            The redhead poured a thin steam of water into his hair and let in drip down. Alex had brought out a tin box labeled SEAN and started stowing the money inside for him. “Hetero, newbie.” Shaking his hair, he laughingly ducked away when Azazel swatted at him, growling about the water warping his leather. “Like you don’t already soak it with cum,” he teased, dancing away when Logan took a swipe at him.

            “Watch your mouth, kid,” the muscle bear mock-snarled.

            Sean clapped his hands on his cheeks and trilled, “Of course, we’ve got the Queen of England in the house tonight.” He chuckled when the English guy grinned.

            “You’ll find I’m not such a shrinking violet as my heritage would suggest,” he informed them all diplomatically. Then he pointed at Sean. “Now what are you, then?”

            “A Fag Stag,” Alex supplied, stiffening when they all turned to look at him in surprise.

            Hank came dutifully to his rescue, nosing into the conversation; “You know, a straight guy who hangs out with gay guys.”

            “I believe,” Sean sniffed, turning his nose up, “It’s _ally_.”

            “Don’t you have cute ass to go wiggle for the boys?” Azazel reminded him. “Go make yourself useful, hetero.”

            “Heterophobe,” Sean accused, waving at Charles before loping across the room to trot back downstairs.

            “Fag stag,” Charles repeated studiously. “Glam-” he caught Logan’s sharp look and cleared his throat- “ _Muscle_ bear.”

            “What exactly are you trying to do?” Alex interjected, his face scrunched up in consternation.

            Stuttering slightly, Hank answered, nervously pushing his glasses back up his nose. “He’s learning the vocabulary to identify various subcultures within gay male social hierarchy.”

            Logan and Azazel traded a look at the furious blush spreading over Hank’s face. Charles, oblivious, only nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

            Alex snorted. “As if the mainstream doesn’t try to put us in boxes already.”

            “But Alex,” Charles reasoned, speaking more with his hands now that alcohol flowed so freely in his veins, “It’s such an important aspect of our identity. Granted, sometimes these kinds of classifications can cultivate a tendency for elitist behaviors, but I also believe that within a social group – particularly one lacking in positive socialization – this need to categorize is healthy.”

            “Wow, I did not follow that at all, man,” said a handsome black man who had appeared from behind the EMPLOYEES ONLY door next to the bar. He fist-bumped Alex before the bartender moved from behind the counter. “Go ahead and take a break.”

            Hank immediately perked up.

            Charles hid his grin in his glass while Azazel shot another knowing glance at Logan.

            Alex stuck his hand in his pockets, arms flexing with the movement. Hank swallowed down a dry throat when the tiniest strip of skin along Alex’s hips was visible beneath the tight white shirt. He raised wide eyes to see Alex looking at him with hesitant expectancy. They looked at each for a beat as the rest of the group watched with baited breath. Azazel cooed when Hank followed Alex across the floor and Charles clinked celebratory glasses with Logan.

            “Did you do that on purpose?” Charles asked mischievously. “Mr…?”

            “Just call me Darwin,” he supplied, “And yeah, I did. Those two have been circling each other like two dumb, horny bucks.”

            “What would you call Hank?” he asked to know one in particular. Darwin cocked his head quizzically and Charles would be lying if his heart didn’t jump just a little at the adorable furrow of the man’s brow. The consistent attractiveness of this bar had to be some sort of cosmic fluke, or an orgasmic release of his pent up good karma.

            “I’d call him Hank,” Darwin deadpanned, smiling when Azazel chuckled and slid into Hank’s empty seat.

            “Our professor wants to know about birds and the bees.” At Darwin’s arched eyebrow Azazel laughed,  “Or the twunks and otters more precise, I think.”

            “Good lord,” Charles lamented, “ _Twunks_?”

            Now Darwin was laughing. “Alex, for instance. Twunk.”

            “Hunky twink,” Azazel elaborated. “Musclier. Manlier than usual twinkies.”

            “I see that,” he pondered, “It’s fitting.” Turning to Azazel, he said, “Then what are you lot?”

            Before Azazel could answer Darwin cut in, “It’s best if you don’t ask us to identify ourselves. Vanity tends to bend the truth.”

            Azazel snorted. “Then go on, dear. You run the show.”

            Tossing the white washcloth across his broad shoulders, Darwin set his elbows on the counter and pointed at Azazel, “Now here you’ve got a twofer. Azazel’s has the visual identifier and a preference identifier.”

            Charles ‘oohed’ gamely.

            “Not sexy,” Azazel complained, examining his nails. “Twofer is ridiculous word.”

            Logan belched. “Get on with it.”

            “The visual,” Darwin continued, “Is that he is a leather daddy. Bears tend to be in the leather scene a lot, but Az hasn’t quite got the girth or the hair to pull that off, and he’s too old to be a cub-”

            “Not too old to put you over my knee,” Azazel grumbled irritably while Logan snorted.

            “A cub,” recited Charles, fascinated.

            “A young bear,” Logan contributed grandly, lavishing under Charles’ excited attention. “Not quite the level of manly sex appeal we older bears have.”

            “Less hair,” Azazel added.

            “Then you have the second tier,” said Darwin, stacking his hands, “The preference. Now, Azazel is a-”

            “The way you say makes it sound dirty,” he protested weakly, but Darwin ignored him. 

            “He’s a chaser.”

            “A _chubby_ chaser,” Logan trumpeted. “Means he likes extra cushion for the pushin’, and then some.”

            Throwing an arm conspiratorially around Charles’ shoulder, Azazel argued, “It means more to love, is this not right?”

            “Speaking of cushion,” Logan butted in, shooing Azazel’s hand off Charles’ shoulder, “There’s your big beautiful man now.”

            They all looked over at an overweight man dressed in a sharp black suit. His eyes were brown behind horn-rimmed glasses and his hairstyle was stuck in the sixties. He moved through the growing crowd daintily, despite the heaviness of his frame. Round cheeks framed full lips and thick eyebrows.

            Azazel tongue flashed outside his mouth for an instant. “Patience is key,” he muttered to no one, though Charles suspected it might be to himself.

            Refocusing on Darwin, Charles tried not to bat his eyelashes. “And you?”

            “Otter,” Logan said immediately.

            “Okay, I’ve heard that one before; what is it exactly?” He tried to think of otter-like qualities that Darwin might share. Sleek, maybe. Likes shellfish? No, that wasn’t quite right.

            Rolling his eyes, Darwin sighed. “Otter, yes.”

            “Skinny guys,” Logan told Charles. “Body hair, but not like the real men.” He grinned. “When they were younger they were twinks.”

            “And just to clarify, that-”

            “Twinks, you know,” Logan waved his hand, “Flamboyant, girly, pretty-boys.” Azazel nodded distractedly in agreement, otherwise focused on his quarry.

            Charles ticked off his fingers with his eyes closed, focusing. “Twinks, otters, bears, twunks, leather daddies, chasers…” Deflating, he frowned. “There really should be a course on this.”

            “You’re in it, bub,” Logan confirmed, tipping his glass to be filled. Flicking his brown eyes up to Darwin, a mischievous glint lit them up. “Darwin has a ‘preference’ thing too.” Stubbornly overlooking the bartender’s sharp warning look, he went on; “Darwin here is a Dairy Queen.”

            Charles stared in silence before inelegantly clearing his throat. He said, turning a compassionate face to the bartender. “I don’t begrudge anyone their passions, Darwin.”

            Narrowing his eyes in awkward confusion, Darwin said slowly, “…Sure.”

            “Not everyone accepts food as sexual props, but you shouldn’t allow closed minds to-” he stopped, looking from a suddenly horrified Darwin to a hysterically cackling Logan. “I think I’d like to take those words back now.” Azazel was frowning, having apparently missed the joke while he was stalking.

            “Man,” Darwin squeaked, “I like _white guys_. Dairy Queen; like, vanilla ice cream?” He pinched the bridge of his nose while Logan clung to the bar to keep from falling off the stool.

            “Right, of course,” he admonished himself, seeking solace in his drink. Darwin apparently took pity on him and firmly pushed the glass down.

            “Slow down turbo,” he sighed. “No need to get alcohol poisoning just because you’re not well versed in what I see as a pretty lame practice anyway. I mean, _Dairy_ Queen? There goes my childhood, you know?”

            “Never look at Dilly Bar same way again,” sympathized Azazel.

             “How does the Dairy Queen relate to the Potato Queen,” Charles asked suddenly, remembering Hank mentioning it.

            “Asians who only go for white guys,” Logan grunted.

            “Don’t forget Rice Queen,” added Azazel. “Guys only date Asian.”

            Charles pushed his half-filled glass away, prompted by a pointed sweep of dizziness. He was way too interested in the direction of this conversation to veer into shit-faced territory. Without any prompting Darwin set a cold glass of water in front of him. He smiled his thanks and let the cool settle over him. “Are there any Kings?”

            “The lesbians,” Azazel offered by way of explanation.

            An indignant voice rang over Charles’ shoulder; “Jesus, you don’t have to say it like it’s a disease!” He turned to see a pretty brunette shouldering through the crowd, her thin mouth slanted in a wry smile. “Especially when you think about how low-risk lesbian sex is when it comes to STIs.”

            Logan groaned and buried his face in his beer. But Azazel was grinning. “Because the vagina spits the acid and has teeth.”

            “That’s right,” she confirmed, snorting when they both couldn’t keep a straight face. Her large brown eyes found Charles and her smile brightened. “Fresh meat!” Sticking out her hand, she gave him a firm handshake. “I’m Moira, the resident muff-diver.”

            “Now, now,” Azazel chided. “Is more elegant to say lady’s lady.”

            “You should talk,” she laughed, “You’re looking quite dandy in those chaps. Bet the chickens are circling you tonight, Az.”

            As if on cue Charles piped up, “Chickens?”

            “Young guys,” Logan provided, rolling his eyes as Moira wrestled him into a one-armed hug. He scowled when he realized they were wearing the same plaid shirt. “They like older guys. They’re looking for their Daddy.”

            “Well, this Daddy,” Azazel sniffed, “Isn’t a Chicken Hawk. I like men, _not_ boys.”

            Moira held up her hands, winking when Darwin slid a beer her way. “Say what you want, but that pretty little EQ has been eye-fucking you all night.”

            Completely enthralled, Charles twisted in his seat to find this ‘EQ’. Though he didn’t know what it meant, he saw the pretty pale face and lustrous dark hair immediately. The man was staring rather intently at Azazel, and only a few feet away from the slender beauty was Azazel’s bespectacled crush, looking massive in comparison to the waif of a man.

            “Ethnically Questionable,” muttered Logan helpfully, nudging Charles. “All the rage these days.”

            “I see,” he murmured. “He _is_ pretty.”

            “Pretty like a snake,” the burly man whispered back. “Best to keep away from that one.”

            He was about to inquire further about the mysterious EQ, but it was that moment Charles caught sight of Hank. A _shirtless_ Hank, looking just as gangly and awkward as one would imagine. But also looking deliriously happy. And Charles could see why; Alex was ambling along beside him, sweat-soaked and looking like the victim of a glitter bombing. Weaving through the crowd together, they smeared past the EQ, who sneered and cursed as glitter clung to what Charles surmised was a ridiculously expensive tank top that fit him with transparent grace, and a tight pair of designer jeans. Hank waved at Charles before he and Alex disappeared down the stairway that led to the alley outside, showered in sparkling rainbow lights.

            Turning back, Charles first saw the look on Azazel’s face that warned him of trouble. Moira was hunched over her beer, glaring sidelong across the room, and Logan’s hackles were raised. Glancing at Darwin, Charles noticed the muscle standing out in his angular jaw and furrowed his brows. Following their eyes, he found the source of their apparent ire in the form of a man. Older, but shamelessly handsome and sleek. His face was affixed with a plastic smile, with eyes that glinted dangerously. He wore a fitted charcoal gray t-shirt and slim black jeans. The latest model smartphone was tossed carelessly in his grip, and Charles hiccupped when that gaze cut across the room and zeroed in on him. For a moment Charles thought he was going to walk towards him, and released a relieved puff of air when the EQ glided over to cling to the man’s side, opening his plush mouth for the other to plunder in a kiss that left Charles short of breath but safe from unwanted attentions.

            Before the Englishman could ask, Moira muttered, “Shaw. The big bad wolf.”

            “We forgot that one,” Azazel agreed. “Wolves. Most dangerous animal in the gay kingdom. They prowl around and prey on only prettiest boys, and then leave them.” He sighed wistfully, “Those were good old days.”

            “Right,” Logan snorted derisively, grinning over his glass at Azazel’s sour glare.

            Muttering grumpily in Russian, Azazel made a very clear hand gesture at Logan. Moira tutted, smoothing back the hair under his hat while Charles commented pleasantly, “Not anyone could sport a pair of chaps so handsomely!” Finally Logan rolled his eyes and signaled Darwin to get a drink for Azazel. He accepted the apology readily and preened under the attentions from Moira and Charles.

            Darwin replaced Logan’s empty glass with another pint, pausing only a moment as he caught sight of someone who had just entered the bar. “Hey, Logan,” he murmured, jerking his head towards the front entrance. The other man looked up and narrowed his eyes.

            “Shit, they’re _both_ here tonight?”

            Sensing impending drama, Azazel sidled over and said conspiratorially, “What’s the T?”

            “Az, don’t ever say that again,” Darwin deadpanned bemusedly. “Anyway, it’s _him_.”

            “Another ‘ _him_ ’?” he asked incredulously, fixing his hat and scanning the crowd. “I don’t – _oh_.” Grabbing Charles excitedly, Azazel spun the man until confused blue eyes fell on the newcomer, growing incredibly large and round.

            “Wha-…” Charles’ jaw dropped. He blinked when Azazel kindly snapped his mouth shut for him, his grin curving against the side of Charles’ face.

            “Now _that_ , _milaya_ ,” he said brightly, “is different animal entirely.”

            He was beautiful. Charles’ mind was flooded with flattering adjectives that nonetheless didn’t do the man justice: Adonis, angel, perfect…. Charles had never set eyes on such a flawless specimen of manhood, and every fiber of his more primitive side was pining after him. He watched as sinewy muscle moved beneath broad shoulders, tapering down a perfectly flat stomach to sinfully narrow hips. His legs were endless, lean and hugged sensually by dark denim. The face that remained partially hidden in the shadowy light of the room was angular with a strong jaw and classically handsome features. Charles saw a brilliant flash of teeth and his heart skipped. Strangely colorless eyes reflected the glassy flash of a sequined gown as a drag queen flounced over to kiss the man on both clean-shaven cheeks. Gingery hair lay neatly across his brow, swept up in a classic gentlemanly style that came straight from the sixties. He could’ve walked right off the cover of any magazine; to which Charles intensely wanted a subscription.

            “If only he’d put on little weight,” Azazel lamented,  “He’s like greyhound.”

            “And we all know you like mastiffs much more,” Moira teased. She drummed her fingers against her chin. “I can see the appeal, but you can keep him.”

            “Gladly,” Charles gushed, startling a loud laugh from Moira. The sound must have carried because the beautiful man turned their way and in a dizzying instant his eyes found Charles.

            At one point in his life Charles thought he’d been swept away. It turned out he’d been fooled by a lot of smoke and mirrors. If being swept away felt like anything, it felt like _this_.

            “Hoo boy,” Logan muttered, making his exit, dragging a protesting Moira along with him. Darwin slowly inched away.

            Azazel refused to leave his front row seat, grinning gleefully when Charles slipped from the bar stool, standing on unsteady feet. He leaned up to whisper in his ear, “His name is Erik.”

            “Erik,” Charles said. “Erik.” As if by some spell Erik started walking forward as if drawn by his own name rolling off of Charles’ lips. His gaze was severe, almost fearsome but for the soft press of his mouth and the mischievous twinkle in his glass-green irises. When he was right in front of Charles, Erik cocked his head and grinned with all teeth. It struck Charles that this was no wolf; he looked more like a shark.

            “You’re new,” Erik said. His voice rumbled above the music, aware of the rushing attention catching like fire through the bar.

            Charles’ brow knit as he tried to pin down the faint accent, melding together in a mix of too many to guess properly. “I’m Charles.”

            “You said my name, before.”

            “Yes,” he said, blushing slightly but keeping his chin up. “Azazel-” he turned to find the leather daddy gone. “Deserter,” he grumbled, glancing back at Erik.

            “I liked how you looked, Charles. When you said it.” He leaned in slightly, crowding the shorter man’s space.

            “And how was that?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady. It was hard to concentrate with all his blood flying south like a flock of birds.

            He opened his mouth to answer, hand poised halfway up on its way to caress that soft looking cheek, when Erik heard a voice he decidedly didn’t want to.

            “Erik,” sang Sebastian Shaw, his smile tight as he approached. The dapper looking fellow he’d spotted earlier – named Charles if he’d heard correctly - was there, looking flushed and positively edible. Janos, his long dark hair mussed from Shaw’s hard grip earlier, must have caught his approving glance at the blue-eyed man because he clung harder to Sebastian’s arm. He’d have to remind him later that possessiveness was tacky and that Sebastian Shaw didn’t _do_ tacky.

            Charles saw with a sinking feeling as the playful flirtation drained from Erik’s face, replaced by obvious disdain. When the tall man turned, his arm slid up around Charles’ shoulders, drawing an embarrassing “Eep!” from him. Pulled against his side, Charles caught a whiff of his cologne; light and secretive in a way that made him want to follow the scent.

            “Little late for you, isn’t it?” Erik bit out, eyes flashing. Shaw only laughed, his perfect white teeth displayed in a garish grin.

            “Oh, little Erik Lehnsherr. It’s still time for big boys to be out. And for little boys to be in bed,” he purred, hand winding around Janos’ slim waist to haul him up against his side. Janos hissed at the man under Erik’s arm and Sebastian smirked. “You’ll have to consider if a you want a man or a little boy,” he addressed the young man at Erik’s side. Charles had a cock-sucking mouth, Sebastian decided.  “I’m not sure if Erik here knows how to treat a pretty little thing like you.” Unabashedly reaching out, he drew a line with his finger along the man’s jawline. His grin turned menacing when Erik’s hand snapped out to grab his wrist. Janos broke from his side to push into Erik’s space, glaring hotly.

            Lost, Charles wiggled in between the EQ and Erik, holding up one hand to placate while the other pried Erik off of Shaw. Nudging him away by backing into him, Charles reached behind him to grip Erik’s forearm, effectively keeping him still. “I think we all need to reflect on etymology,” he announced.

            Shaw arched an eyebrow and Janos looked dumbfounded.

            Clearing his throat, Charles soldiered on; “As I am sure we are all aware, ‘gay’ originally meant happiness and joviality.”

            Janos sputtered, and Shaw uttered a cold bark of laughter. “You’re adorable.” Stalking up to the pair, he stared into Erik’s eyes challengingly, though he spoke to Charles. “If later you find that you’d prefer a real man’s touch-” his eyes sliced over to brilliant blue and held them captive- “I’ll be waiting.”

            Next to him Erik growled but Charles only nodded sharply. “I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a very long time, but thank you for the offer.” He smiled wanly at Shaw’s sneer, catching the edge of the EQ’s angry scowl when the two slouched off into the bowels of the bar. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stiffened suddenly when a ghost of warm air rushed past his ear.

            “You’re incredible,” he said against Charles’s temple, inhaling his clean scent. “I can’t keep my head around that creep, but you were perfect.”

            “Was I?” Charles whispered.

            “Sexy as hell,” he promised, hand settling on Charles’ waist. “You know the root of ‘gay’ also means ‘lascivious’ and ‘wanton’.”

            “Are you sure?” Charles asked in mock-seriousness. “I might need a demonstration.” He turned in Erik’s arms and upturned his face, smiling easily when the taller man closed in on him. The heat between their bodies spiked and Charles bit his lip. Erik’s eyes darted down at the movement and Charles could feel the press of what felt like an extremely… _impressive_ … erection lying along his thigh. “And what about you?” he breathed.

            “What about me,” Erik echoed, wetting his lips as he continued to stare at Charles’ mouth.

            “What about your etymology?”

            “You want to know what’s at my root?” he joked.

            Charles’ heartbeat quickened when a hand pressed his ass and hitched him up right against Erik’s clothed cock. Right, ‘impressive’ was an understatement. He gulped, a small whimper escaping him as Erik dipped his head and captured his mouth in a searing kiss. Strong fingers stroked through his hair to rested at the back of his head, the hand on his ass holding him in place. He gripped Erik’s arms, fingers digging into the flexed muscle straining the short sleeves of his shirt. Charles ached under that touch, arching into it, undulating against Erik’s body, thrilled by the hardness tight underneath Erik’s fly. They pushed at each other, hands eventually moving to explore the other’s body. When Charles reached between Erik’s legs he was rewarded with a hot sting of teeth on his lip, leaving it swollen and stinging. Moaning loudly, Charles dove against his mouth again, opening wide beneath the winding tongue as he worked his fingers against the outline of Erik’s cock.

            A hand fell heavily on his shoulder and Charles turned drunkenly to take in the side of a reproachful looking blonde woman, her hair pulled back in a tight bun and the word SECURITY in stark black letters across her white shirt.

            “Take it to the dance floor, sugar,” she ordered, though a twinkle of amusement danced in her blue eyes.

            They broke apart; Charles dazed enough to stumble into a barstool. The alcoholic haze that had been ebbing and flowing seemed to have him in its grip once again, now coupled with painful arousal that sucked his good sense down into a void. Shakily glancing up at Erik, who looked just as undone, Charles keened low in his throat when the man grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the stairs. They both staggered down, making it to the dance floor entirely by chance, their lips clashing together wildly as the deep bass rocked under their feet. It sang in their veins, pulses stuttering along with the music. Charles twisted against Erik, the flashing lights and stifling beat increasing his lust until he was clawing at the other man. And in return Erik was rutting against him, their violent kiss all teeth and tongues.

            In his peripheral he thought he saw Hank dancing with Alex, and even Azazel grinding into the ass of a heavyset man in horn-rimmed glasses. Logan was biting the neck of some guy in dark glasses at the foot of the dais Sean was dancing on; his eyes closed and his head thrown back as his body moved aimlessly to the music. Even Moira was present, her tongue down the throat of a pretty girl with too much makeup, her hand up the girl’s skirt. The charged atmosphere rushed through him and Charles shoved Erik back, his eyes fierce. He threw his gaze around until the saw the exit, remembering the alleyway. Jerking his head, he started striding over the floor, feeling the other man at his back.

            Outside he grabbed Charles and slammed his back against the brick wall. They were cast in the muted rainbow light, shadowy figures moving everywhere. But Erik didn’t care. He hadn’t been taken like this before, as enraptured as he was. And Charles looked beautiful; his mouth stained black in the shadows, hair a tousled mess, his eyes heavy and hooded with the promise sex. Glad for the condoms in his back pocket and the packet of lube he always kept Erik attacked Charles, hands cupping his round ass through his pants as he bit along his neck. He sucked hard at the base of his throat while Charles keened and writhed under him. “We’re doing this,” he growled into a flushed ear.

            “Yes,” Charles hissed helplessly, scratching at his broad shoulders. “Erik, please.” His head cracked back against the wall when Erik bit into the growing bruise he’d left. “Let me suck you.”

            He whimpered, burying his face in Charles’ shoulder. “Fuck-” he grunted as Charles yanked down his zipper and shoved his hand inside- “ _Charles._ ”

            He twisted their positions so Erik was against the wall. Dropping to his knees with no preamble, Charles nuzzled the growing bulge before him, mouthing it through the cloth while Erik dragged his nails along the brick. Filthy sounds were coming from his mouth, voice roughened by desire. Charles swore he heard German in there somewhere, and wondered how loud he could make Erik get. Working the tight jeans down slender hips, Charles smoothed his palm over the damp front of Erik’s boxer-briefs, shuddering in anticipation at the sheer size of the man’s erection. Looking up at Erik through hooded lashes, he slowly wetted his mouth, waiting for the other man’s gaze to settle on him before he dragged the cotton down and released Erik’s leaking cock. It hung heavy and full, lined right along Charles’ lips. Kissing it demurely, Charles grinned at the stifled groan that came from above. The alcohol streamed in his veins, washing out the awareness of other people engaging in their own forays around them. Encircling the base of Erik’s erection, Charles neatly licked the slit, meeting Erik’s eyes once more before he wrapped his lips around the head and sucked.

            It wouldn’t be long before he lost it in an embarrassingly short amount of time. Charles’ lips made a perfect red ring around his cock, and Erik watched with growing aroused alarm as the Englishman sunk down until his nose was pressed against his flat stomach. “I can’t-” he choked out, trembling helplessly as Charles hollowed his cheeks and did something impossible with his tongue that forced Erik to shove his fist into his own mouth to stifle a humiliating whimper.

            Flicking his eyes upwards, Charles hummed around the heavy cock and watched Erik’s eyes squeeze shut. His was hard and aching in the confines of his pants, but that pleasure could wait. Erik felt incredible, hot and pulsing against his tongue, stretching down his throat with the most vulgar press of flesh. He imagined it pushing into his ass later and Charles bobbed his head faster, taking Erik in to the root each time, savoring each shuddering thrust and muffled moan raining down from above his head. Charles closed his eyes, rubbing himself as he let Erik fuck his mouth, clawing his fingers down the other man’s stomach as large hands sunk into his hair and gently cradled his head.

            “Look, please, open your eyes,” he husked, biting hard on his tongue when Charles opened those startlingly blue eyes. The sight of his cock buried deep between the man’s lips, his cheeks flushed beautifully and red lips wet from saliva and precum. He whispered nonsense in German, a string of praise as the painful draw of his orgasm was yanked out of him, exploding messily down Charles’ throat. Erik tried to pull back, but Charles hands gripped his hips and kept him still, allowing him the enticing sight of a bobbing Adam’s apple while Charles swallowed him. The lingering shocks of pleasure melted into hypersensitivity and he bent to cup Charles’ face, pulling him up slowly along his body to swallow his mouth in a deep kiss. The taste of himself on Charles’ tongue was thrilling, the press of their hips urgent as he became sharply aware of Charles’ aching need. Speaking breathily against swollen red lips, he husked, “Let me touch you. Charles, I want-”

            “Shh,” he chuckled, kissing Erik again before stumbling back, pulling the other man with him. “I want to take my time with you. And as charming as this alleyway is, I want you on a bed.”

            He rocked on his feet, drawing Charles into his embrace to nibble at his ear. He watched dazedly as the Englishman tucked him back into his pants. “What are you?” he asked wonderingly. The buzz thrummed throughout his entire body.

            Charles grinned, swimming in the dazzling light. “Maybe a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” he murmured, laughing at Erik’s obvious confusion.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a bit of fun. The bar itself is modeled after a popular gay bar in Seattle. It’s not quite as glamorous as portrayed in the story, but it’s close. XD
> 
> A Redheaded Slut can be a shot or as cocktail: Jåger, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice.


End file.
